Nothing but slough before you rode me silver. And smooth,
until I shone. I rode in and didn’t even see I was gone: the eye
of my navel, sand folds this way all the time. And rain scours
just the same. You hold all the clay. I fall to granule.
But within my whorl, you are winged: doubled and pure,
like the coupling of pebbles in storm water. These enduring
glances from wind on pane say you can see plainly the part
of me you miss. Our palms meet at the fingertips, forming a W:
double which is only half me to whole us. Where our wrists
brush smooth, clay chips curve into this sand swept hollow:
a roil to the usual clink of bone and arc in stone.
This is not about time; it’s the closing
of a single us: a gentle
edging into an ellipse.